They sit in their little metal box,
A shell made for just the 4 of them,
Protected from the traditional claws and teeth of war,
But a deadly ***** in it's armor,
Easily exploited they can be.

Their little metal box is hot,
They're all slim,
The hatches are small,
The seats cramped,
You'll never see a fat tanker.

Close they are,
Close enough to operate like the intricate machine they pilot,
Words barely needed,
Maybe a grunt or a hand gesture will suffice.